


Freedom of Expression

by kyloewok



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Choking, Coercing/coaxing, Degradation, Dubcon or Noncon Moirallegiance, F/M, Gun play, Handcuffs, Hate Sex, Jail Sex, Liberal!Reader, Older Man/Younger Woman, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vandalism, dom!Flip, spitting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:29:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29502042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyloewok/pseuds/kyloewok
Summary: A local human-rights activist (you) gets throttled into the hands of the towns most promising detective, Flip Zimmerman, after vandalizing property of the police out of sheer spite and anarchy.Fuck the police... right?
Relationships: Flip Zimmerman/Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Freedom of Expression

The summer's breeze was suffocating, conveying the scent of molted tarmac. The humid air billowing through the quarry of ferns you were cowering behind. 

The bushel of plants swayed like canary with the hot gust of wind that torridly cascades around your body. The fringe-tips of your baby hairs caressing your skin, with the slick wave of air that tumbles through the plantation.

An abundance of cop cars were aligned just around the back of the station. Parked in designated sectors. You were swarmed by the pacified, untouched vehicles. Chewing your lip to suppress a prudent grin, as you beam at the array of cars. Taking your pick.

Although you were a devoted supporter to all things liberal— a full-time protestor and an advocate for human rights— you were by no means an anarchist. You abided by laws and kept your temper under wraps, only broadcasting your passion on liberty through signs that indicate significance, and chants that tie with your beliefs.

It was the 70's. Your beliefs were rare and deemed as nearly immoral by those who limited their standards to white supremacy and just an overall prejudice degree. In the society you were enraptured in, your beliefs and moral compass was condemned.

You were notorious around the quainter, even slummier areas of Colorado. You and every other person that engrossed themselves with the desire for liberation and freedom. They hated you. You were an unwelcomed character of sorts, a disruption to the lavish neighborhood, if you will.

The cops even loathed you. 

Your mischievous smile deepens at the mere thought. Those pigs had a surprise in store for them tonight— and it was blatant by the satchel of products that weighed down your shoulder, that they would have a mess to tend to tomorrow morning.

A mess that would obtain their attention, and leave room for you and the movement to convey a peaceful protest without interruption by those brutally savage pigs.

You grunt, hoisting yourself over the scalloped-brick ridge that blockades the station from the valley of overgrown ferns, that margin the building in slender tendrils. 

You crawl vigilantly across the cement, wincing internally as pebbles embed themselves into the crevices of your palms, digging into your knees. Paint-grimed jean shorts and a nearly transparent tank top might not have been the most optimal outfit for tonight's occasion.

The array of spray-paint bottles clank in your bag, as you scamper across the flaky concrete on your hands and knees. You were growing acclimated to the sharp piercings of keen rocks, merely focusing on the prickles and scuffs chafing your skin.

You halt at a random car, that was tucked in one of the crannies of the condensed lot. Your lips quirk into a gratified smile, as you bask in the pride of successfully maneuvering through the lot of cars without complication.

You heedfully shuck off your bag, pinching the clasps, unbuckling them wearily. You glimpse your surroundings again, before rummaging through your bag, yanking out a canister of midnight-purple spray paint. Smiling down at the signature color.

You pop the lid off, allowing it to tumble defeatedly upon the cement, rolling lethargically along the tarmac. You shake the canister robustly, the beads inside chiming. 

A smirk harvests on your face as you start to spray the abbreviated version of your message. Ethically swirling the letters ACAB upon the words, Colorado Springs Police Department, that brand the wide door.

You hear the thunderous pound of footsteps and instantly cower, crouching around the caboose of the cop car, as the clamber of booted feet thudding into the cement rushes by. Growing to be a lingering echo as the steps dissipate after only a couple seconds.

You crawl back to your original spot, rounding to the side, shaking the canister exuberantly, continuing to eye your surroundings.

The detrimental scent of chemicals wafts into your face, faint splatters of purple speckling your hands, coating your fingers. You squint your eyes and hold your breath to avoid ingesting the chemicals. You add a doodle of a penis just for good measure, chuckling giddily at yourself.

Once you were satisfied with your bleak but potent design, you shoved the canister back into your dirty bag, slinging it over your shoulder and crawling to the next vehicle. 

You were nearing the second cop car you had chosen to annihilate, a prudent smile lingering on your lips— when a strong hand wrenched you off of the ground by a cluster of hair.

You shriek, instantly thrashing in the embrace of your opposer, as a pair of burley arms restrict you to an equally as broad chest. "Get the fuck off of me!" Your voice shrills deafeningly, reverberating around the abundance of cars, as you kick your legs aimlessly in an attempt at escaping.

"Stop fighting." A baritone voice growls into your ear. Breath that reeks of preemptive tobacco wafts into your cheek like a cloud of lethally-lustful poison. A wave of cedar and musk bombarding your senses. You pound your fist into the mans bulky arm, hiccuping on your breath, grunting.

"Let me go!" You demand, squirming, eyes flickering to the red-and-black flanneled arms that secure you to a slab of pure muscle, that swells heftily into your back.

"I said stop fighting, little girl." He seethes through clenched teeth, clocking you in the abdomen with his elbow, sending you bleating and gawking for air.

"Don't fucking touch me," you clamor, voice hoarse, as you cough on your hitching breaths.

"Don't fight," the man sneers back, forcefully pummeling you to the ground, your cheek squished into the fragmentary cement. He stiffly extends his hand behind his back to grasp the pair of handcuffs that clanks from the loop in his utility belt.

"You're only making things ten times harder for yourself." He gruffs out. 

You grumble back, writhing, as he circles your wrists, giving them a brisk tug. You whine, as the cold metal clicks, interlocking around your wrists. Binding them together tautly.

"Okay," he exhales, voice husky and low. "Up. Move it." He directs, sighing the domineering words, hand engulfing your bicep and hoisting you ruthlessly off the ground.

He tows you by the belligerent grip he was housing upon your arm. You reluctantly comply by trudging your feet, scrambling around. 

"Hey." He glowers. Giving your arm a reprimanding tug. 

You stubbornly disregard him, only glaring at him in your peripherals and pursing your lips. Continuing to wallow and stumble around, as he drags you nearer to the station.

"I said hey. Move it." He clucks at you. Squeezing your bicep harder.

This time, you crane your neck to face him, opening your mouth to snarf out a complaint— only to stifle any form of refutation when your eyes zoned in on his brooding face.

His hooded eyes gleamed like ripe honey under the fluorescent lighting that the station radiated. His nose was prominent and romanesque, as he peered down at you from the bridge of it, a stern ripple surfacing in his dark brows. A black, rugged beard and mustache duo peppered the pale skin encompassing his plump lips.

"Move." His eyebrows pinch together as he permits you with another shove, his lips puckering in perfect ways as he speaks sharply.

You supply yourself with a deep breath— only for the tantalizing scent that clings onto his formidable build to seep into your nostrils, and tamper with your sanity infeasibly more.

"Fine." You grit back, narrowing your eyes, angling your chin defiantly and regaining your inadequate strides.

He huffs at you. Continuing to maneuver you through the large quantity of outdated police cars.

Artificial white lights flourished the exterior of the station, the towering lamposts flickering overhead, as the summer breeze howls eerily. Another officer swings the glass door open, allowing you and the cop inside.

"Mulaney." The man latching to you greets the officer gruffly, nodding curtly.

"Zimmerman." He retorts, munching on a greasy, glazed donut. A few crumbs loitering in his untrimmed mustache.

You grimace. "Fucking pigs." You murmur bitterly under your breath, glaring at your harrowing, uniformed opponents.

"Where are you taking me?" You demand, eyebrows knitted together, as you squirm un-agilely in his overbearing hold.

He doesn't respond. 

You scoff. "Fine. Be an asshole, then. It's what you fucking bastards do best."

He chooses to disregard your venemous insults. Maybe because he was accustomed to the hostility, maybe because your flagrant attitude meant nothing in regards to his compliance to maintaining a dignified facade.

He leads you down a narrow, enclosed hall. Aligned with an assemble of jail cells. All fundamental in temporary ways. One of them housing a refutably innocent person, another caging another.

He pivots you down an obtuse corner, his heavy boots squelching upon the unpolished floors. These cells were drab and vacant. The space flourished by an eerie emptiness. Except for the occasional buzz of a fly zilching through the muggy air of the station.

He halts in front of the cell stationed at the end of the bleak hallway. He lugs your bag of equipment off of your shoulder. "In." He commands mundanely, holding your heavy bag with one stout, long finger.

"Are you kidding me?" You snap. Refuting his demands. "I'm not being arrested, am I?"

A low scoff rumbles in the back of his broadly built chest, as he cocks a brow. "For vandalism on police property?" He muses. "Yes, you are. And for spreading false information."

A bewildered ripple surfaces in your brow. "What false information?" You ask.

Again— he doesn't answer.

Instead, he tries to usher you, forcefully, into the drab, cubicle-sized cell. You plant your feet meaningfully to the scuffed up floor, rooting your paint-splattered Doc's to the pavement that was filthed with grime beneath you.

"What about my constitutional rights?" You remark pridefully, tilting your head. Smirking cheekily at him. "It's called freedom of speech. And my art— that's freedom of expression."

An anger kindles inside of his core, gyrating like a persistent helix of vexation. "Mm." He grits his teeth together. Cheeks flushing crimson with fury. "You call painting a scraggly little dick on my car... art?"

You suppress a corrupt grin. "So that was your car?" Your twisted smile grows when he sighs.

"Just get in the goddamn cell." He drawls in exasperation. "Before I make you."

A warm trickle of... inclination churns in your core. Your breath hitching as you stand on your tiptoes to earnestly level your face with his, feeling that warmth of lust and venereal need expand throughout your laboring chest.

His minty, cigarette-tarnished breaths tickle your warm cheeks, that buzz coyly.

"Make me, Zimmerman." You quip tauntingly, wiggling your eyebrows.

His jaw clenches, his hand shooting out to engulf your throat. A stunned squeak reverberates through the depths of your throat, vibrating into his palm, that was calloused and rough against your delicate flesh. The tips of your boot were ghosting the floor, as he had nearly hauled you completely off of the ground.

"Watch that mouth." He hisses grievously. His undereye twitching. Anger fusing from every pore that speckles his satin-like face.

The veins in your neck protrude and pulsate into his piqued grasp. You swallow into his palm, breaths quivering, as a scowl slowly creeps upon your flushed face.

"Fuck the police." You remark indignantly, gathering a wad of saliva in the back of your throat, forcefully blasting him in the face with your contemptuous spit.

He simply seals his eyes shut. As the warm, bubbling spit oozes down his cheek, and beads on his brow, threatening to spill within one of his eyes. He harbors his breath in his lungs for a moment.

By your throat, he pummels you through the barred gate of the cell, sending you pillaging through the rusty bars. You collide into the back of the cell, dust dispersing from the brick wall when your back slams into it with a hefty grunt, a haze of tawny dirt billowing through the air.

Your hands crunch beneath your back as they crush into the wall, his formidable, hulking weight jeering you into the bricks. His hand continuing to suppress your air supply.

"You filthy bitch." He mutters, snarling, using his free hand to aggressively swipe the spit off of his face. 

He gathers a sloppy dollop of your spit on his fingers, forcefully shoving them past your lips, scissoring them into your mouth. The firm pressure of his fingers elicits a gag from you, and you gurgle around his digits, trembling with need underneath him.

"You want me to be the bad cop. Hm?" He coos, feigning softness, simultaneously tightening his grip around your throat. "Do you want me to be a bad guy, little girl?"

Your lips quiver, a wave of submission washing over and submerging you. Your body was screaming yes, but the devoted part of your mind that still lingered even after being lured by his musk and domestic persona was screaming no.

"Fuck. You." You seethe out, words breathy and slurred, chin trembling.

"You would probably like that, wouldn't you?" He sneers, chuckling sinisterly at himself, scrutinizing you from head to toe. Narrowing his hazel eyes as he observes you, and your plateauing submission for him.

He knocks you to your knees belligerently, and you whimper in pain, as the concrete roughly slams into your blemished knees. Cracking them at the impact. Your binded hands shake behind your shuddering back, as you paw at the metallic cuffs surfacing around them, in an effortless attempt at yanking them off.

"Look at you..." he mumbles. You flinch when one of his big, veiny hands feathers through your hair, nails scratching your scalp. "So turned on for me... I can see your nipples puckering through that slutty little shirt."

You thrash into the restraints constricting your wrists, glaring up at him through your eyelashes. "Fuck you, asshole!" You chant, expression purely full of vain and malice.

Although, on the contrary, your veins were running brashly with torrid streaks of hot, perverse blood. Soaring throughout every vessel, clogging your organs with lechery, and a liquidating lust.

His hand slithers down to crush your jaw, thumb pinching your chin. "I thought I told you to watch that mouth." He sneers.

"I thought I told you that the constitution says every American citizen is permitted with freedom of speech." You retort back.

He applies a thunderous slap to your cheek. Your head whips to the side with the deafening crack of your neck. You moan at the ruthless sensation. Your cheek tingles and scathes with an appending burn from the force of his smack.

"Shut the fuck up." He grumbles in disdain, his nostrils flaring lividly. "You're just a little girl. You have no clue what your even fighting for out there."

Your chest heaves with your labored breath, as he shakes his head and eyes you earnestly. Like he's trying to coax you out of disappointment, trying to smother you with his placated expression. You scoff at him.

"Stop calling me little girl.." you whine, shifting on your knees, nearly pouting at him. "I'm grown, and I stand for what I believe in. And what I believe in is defunding the police. You're all—"

Another torrid strike upon your cheek, sends the ricochet of skin colliding into skin around the cell and vacant hallway.

"When I say shut that mouth," he starts, unhinging his gun from his belt, sensualizing the shimmering hilt of it. "You better shut that fucking mouth. Unless you want to take things the hard way. Do you understand, little girl?"

You gulp down your trepidation. Every ounce of pride that you produced just moments before vanished to be a lingering, but faltering ego. You nod heedfully.

He cocks the gun. A microscopic click resounding around the cell. "Stand up." He demands. Holding the gun lethargically by his side, as you oblige and ascend from the ground with wobbly, weak knees.

"Turn around." He orders, gesturing for you to spin around by mundanely waving his gun around. Observing you with the bleak cock of his head. His raven, middle-parted waves framing his obtuse face perfectly.

You comply, your fingers wriggling, as the metal starts to rub your fresh raw and puffy. Your pulse skyrockets when his big hand ghosts your hip sensually.

"Get off of me." You grumble, making a cynical attempt at bucking him off of you, only for your assertive motion to be less than beneficial on your behalf.

It only lurched the curve of your ass into the hard, distinguishable bulge tinting through his crisp blue jeans. His thick, pulsating erection flexes through the layers of clothing separating your bodies of hot, pint-up longing.

He tuts back inattentively, working on the clasp of his belt with ethical, leisure movements.

His hands slither around your waist, caressing your abdomen, tickling down to the button that clasps your pants together. He unfastens them methodically, zipping them down, allowing them to drift as they topple down your legs and bunch at your ankles. You squirm against the cold, grainy wall, whimpering. Your bare thighs that burn with sheepishness and desire being cooled by the sandpapered brick.

Your body goes rigid, and solid, like an unpliable slab of untampered stone, when the cold nozzle of his gun ghosts your entrance through your panties from below. 

"W-what—"

"Quiet." He mumbles. Dragging the tip of the gun to your clit. Rubbing circles into the bundle of nerves with the cold muzzle, your leg spasming at the peculiarly-blissful sensation.

You mewl, as your wetness starts to lap through your panties, dampening the metal of his gun. He hums contently, huskily, running it up and down your slick folds, caressing your pulsing pussy with his gun.

"Mmph." You stifle a groan, lips coiled and tautly compressed into the wall. A wavering ripple wiggles across your brows, as he continues to tease your cunt with his undignified weapon.

"That's a good girl." He purrs. "You're so much prettier when you behave."

Your features scrunch into a glower, your breath hitching. "F-fuck you." You stutter, words just a breathy quiver that shudder through your lips skittishly, muffled into the slab of brick molding with your lips.

His fingers gauge through your scalp, nails raking through your sweat-clustered hair, as he snarls into your ear and slams the tip of the gun into your temple instead. Leveling his chin with your shoulder, seething guttural breaths into your neck.

"Oh, yeah?" He fumes, humming, digging the dampened nozzle of his gun into your clammy temple. Your eyelids tremble as tears start to stream silently down your scarlet, scorning cheeks. 

His free, calloused fingers loop around the string of your panties. Rolling the soft fabric between his forefinger and thumb. Before he tediously shucks them down, watching with an appreciative grunt as they cascade down to land gently upon your pants.

"You're trembling." He appoints arrogantly, proudly, slithering the muzzle of the gun down your cheek, caressing your jaw with it. "Is the little big-shot scared, now?" He feigns a coo, lips forming into a faux pout.

"Cowards don't scare me," you murmur indignantly, piercing him with an icy glare from over your clammy shoulder, apprehended-perspiration glistening upon your joints. Reflecting the flickering, artificial lights beaming overhead.

"So insolent," he clucks his tongue, tapping your jaw dauntingly with his gun. Hostilely cranking your neck to the side, prying the nozzle straight into your slick flesh. "Yet so pretty... hm?"

He strokes a strand of dewy, staticky hair out of your face with his gun. "Answer me." He commands. Hand applying a firm pressure to your hips, angling them back, molding your back into a subsequent arch.

You swallow, gulping down all of your abolished morals, that were deteriorating bit by bit with each touch the pig laid upon you; and your lust-bound, shuddering, buzzing body.

You grumble incoherent snark back, and he scoffs breathily. The audible bristle of his wavy hair followed his little snort of disdain as he shakes his head in disbelief.

He conjured his next movements detrimentally fast— the sticky, warm head of his monstrous cock sheathing your unexpected cunt. "F-fuck!" You choke through a raspy gasp, as your cunt clamps around his thick girth, that pounds into you with pure hatred mechanizing his belligerent thrusts.

"That's it..." He growls huskily in approval, voice gritty and proud, the gun still muzzled into your jawline as he lurches his cock into you rabidly, animalistic seethes sputtering from his lips.

"Mmph." You gurgle groggily, chin plowing into the bricks roughly, body pummeling into the wall forcefully with each primal plunge of his cock, that sinks in and out of you robustly.

"So. Fucking. Tight." He gushes through tightly suppressed, grinding teeth, his hand coasting you back into his lewd thrusts by your hip.

You blubber jibberish into the wall, face smushing and plowing into the cold bricks, as you angle your head skittishly to appease yourself with a better supply of air— the air that reeked of bawdy sex, that musky, sandwood cologne feasting on Zimmerman's flannel, and the tobacco that continues to prosper through his heavy pants.

The gun slithers up your chin, the nozzle plunging past your lips. You shrill around the frigid, dangerous muzzle of the gun, as it firmly aligns with your tongue, condensing any sound of bliss you dared to produce.

"Suck on it..." He rasps. Wedging it deeper into your lips, as you nod eagerly, whimpering around the metal. You passionately seal your lips around it, bobbing your head, allowing the metallic taste to wear upon your slimy tongue. Drool drizzling from your lips, spilling from the corners, streaming down your neck.

"Good.." he rewards gruelingly, drilling into you with a primal, savage force, that elicits blotches of blacks and beads of coruscating stars to blur your vision. "Good."

You devoured the obscene taste of you that was loitering on the gun from just moments before, moans muffled, tongue lapping at the metal, as his dick continues to ravage your insides and pluck at that sweet-spot you had prayed he would miss.

You cage the carnal need for release that harvests in your core, mustering all of your strength to suppress the need to come undone. I am not going to cum for a fucking pig, you thought, your notion being interrupted by a wanton moan that shreds through your throat.

Hot-prickles of pleasure pebble through you, scorching your body, as you teeter so close to the peak of your strongly appending orgasm. "O-oh—" You hitch hoarsely, a permanent, pleasured grimace scrunching upon your sweaty features.

"Don't hold back," he glowers breathily, the gun that was swathed in your drool cascading back down to your chin, angling it highly. "Fucking cum for me, slut.."

You harbor your breath in your lungs, his massive cock throbbing and demolishing your insides, plunging into your dripping cunt with rough, agile, manic thrusts. 

"Fuck!" You throw your head back as a long, strained moan reverberates through your dry throat. "Y-yes," you squeal, your voice high and completely foreign, hoarse with need.

He chuckles wickedly, dipping his fingers into the space separating your body from the wall, locating your throbbing clit, rubbing coarse, swift circles into you.

You exploded.

A rich, velvety moan pushes past your slack jaw, your senses escalating and buzzing with an array of pleasurable sensations, as your orgasm racks your body and sends your entire frame convulsing and rocking blatantly with his pumps into your slick cunt, juices spewing from your core and coating his cock.

"Oh, fuck—" Zimmermans breath hitches, his thrusts faltering, "There we go.."

He hisses and stutters on his breath as his orgasm slams into him unyieldingly next, his gun thudding into the floor, his bulky arms engulfing your body as he angles himself deeper into your tight cunt and fucks himself through his orgasm. Pumping white-jets of his seed deep within your swollen, sore pussy.

Coming down from your highs, an immense wave of unease kindles and swines in your gut. Your raspy pants eloping with Zimmermans, as you both bask in a silent shock, at the egregious events that you had just conveyed.

"Shit.." he curses spitefully, both of his hands tenderly pawing at your hips, as he eases out of you heedlessly. He groans, as he observes his throughly used cock, that was slick and dripping with your juices.

Your legs were like jello, feeble-tooth picks, shaking and struggling to sustain your weight. Your only support was the wall, and one of his hands, as he used the other to tuck himself away.

You clear your throat obnoxiously. Frothing on your labored breaths. "A little h-help here?" You swallow sappily mid-sentence, heaving, trying to crane your neck from your unoptimal position to make meaningful eye contact with him.

He sighs, smoothing out his flannel, tediously adjusting the cuffs of the plaid, masculine shirt. Taking his sweet-old time to tend to you; the blubbering, handcuffed mess.

He grunts, as he hauls your panties and shorts back up in one brisk movement, allowing them to cling successfully to your hips. You wiggle away from his touch with what little willpower you still possess, as he fidgets with the button, latching it carelessly.

Then, he starts to tamper with the cuffs. Your eyebrows furrow in befuddlement, as the crank of the cuffs indicates he's removing them.

"What are you doing?" You breathe, shooting him a perplexed look from over your shoulder, chin squished into your collarbone.

"You're being let off with a warning." He mumbles, avoiding eye-contact, as he begrudgingly fumbles with the handcuffs, that you were now free of.

You reluctantly swivel to face him, gingerly kneading the bruises welting into your wrists, eyeing him dubiously. Waiting for the catch. You linger there, as he leisurely starts to recollect himself, attaching his cuffs to his utility belt.

He flashes you a look, brows arched, when he notices you just standing there, awkwardly observing him. "What are you waiting for?" He muses darkly. "A kiss?" He teases.

Despite the blush that blemishes your cheeks, you roll your eyes bitterly. "In your dreams.. pig." You retort, as you spin to wobbly shuffle past him.

He lets it slide at first, only for his hand to halt you by gingerly clasping you by your forearm. His eyes swam with soft rivers of tenderness, but the arch of his brow was purely stern.

"Don't let this happen again," he points an accusing finger, eyebrows lifting higher stoically, in a firm warning. "You'll have higher consequences the second time around."

You smile cheekily up at him, humming contently, radiating prudence. "I think I like those odds," you taunt, ripping your arm from his restrictive grasp, sauntering through the gate that remained ajar.

You fold at the waist to scoop up your bag of equipment, only for the cop to tsk in disapproval at you, sloppily adjusting the collar of his flannel as he trudges over to you. 

"Absolutely not." He utters mundanely, snatching it gently out of your hands, not bothering to look at you or the scowl housed upon your face.

"Asshole." You shoot, this time with your lips quirked into a coy smirk. "See ya, 'round. Hope to see you at the protest tomorrow."

Before he could respond, you swiveled away, strutting with a light wobble in your confident stride, as you disperse down the narrow hallway. Raising your middle finger in a gesture of playful disdain at Zimmerman, not even turning to study his reaction. Only vanishing down the sleek aisle, with the intention of bumping into him tomorrow.

When he came to control and maintain tomorrow's protest, just like he always did.


End file.
